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Posts Tagged ‘sonnets’

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The unions still support because of greed;
The homos do, since by it they are blessed.
For power, it will make the nation bleed,
And even die so long as they are best. 

A shrill excuse and welfare sugarcoat,
A promise made to ope’ the nation’s store,
And greed-deceived, the Party buys their vote.
Then, at the ballot box, they play the whore. 

They’ll save the trees; they’re green – and kill the child,
The babe within that says you’re not your own,
That you can’t do all that you wish, be wild.
They’ll raise you up and take God from the throne. 

With sin the soul, and selfishness the core,
It ain’t your parents’ party any more.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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Mysterious Night, when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And he, creation widen’d in man’s view,
Who could have thought such darkness lay conceal’d
Within thy beams, O Sun! Or who could find
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood reveal’d,
That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind!
Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife?
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

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mmfzcdy

From high above, the tiny figures move
Like clones, their pace and look almost the same.
They seem as poured from mold, or in a groove,
Pale pieces playing parts within a game.

E’en from the level of the street, the mass
Keeps marching much in step like armies file,
Their faces – this or that – all fit a class:
A studied look or quick-lived frown or smile.

E’en greeting or a nod won’t tell the tale;
It takes relationship before one can
Discover what is hidden by the veil
And find the hidden thoughts that make the man.

From far away, men look the same, like ants.
It is the closest look that separates, enchants.


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photo by Marcelo Terraza at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mmfzcdy/%3E+Block+1

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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I never was a master or a slave,
Though maybe one, or both, is in my blood.
By kinsmen past is not how I behave
If in me now by drop or even flood. 

What’s gone before is but a sketch that’s pale,
While I am busy now with paint in hand
With all the colors of my present tale
To make my life a masterpiece that’s grand. 

If all my colors clash, there’s none to blame –
Not ghosts or genes or skin or governments.
I am the one responsible for fame
Or failure, not the long ago, or once. 

That some take umbrage at a distant flag
Shows chains of slav’ry that their minds still drag.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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Milton! thou shouldst be living this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

 

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Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
-The lovely Cottage to the guardian nook,
Hath stirr’d thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh
As many do, repining while they look;
Intruders – who would tear from Nature’s book
This precious leaf with harsh impiety,
-Think what the home must be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants! – Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine;
Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touch’d, would melt away!

 

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Chameleons can paint themselves away
Into the colored canvas where they lie
Until they are a needle in the hay,
Until they are an outline to the eye.

An actress who’s the greatest in her class,
Who pours herself into the part she plays
And fills it like pure water fills a glass
So disappears, to ev’rybody’s praise.

The one becomes another not a twin.
The first has died to give the second life
By slipping into a disparate skin
With tailor’s ease or with a surgeon’s knife.

The face of Meryl Streep can still be seen
In parts she plays, but she’s not on the screen.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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She told the story, and the whole world wept
At wrongs and cruelties it had not known
But for this fearless woman’s voice alone.
She spoke to consciences that long had slept:
Her message, Freedom’s clear reveille, swept
From heedless hovel to complacent throne.
Command and prophecy were in the tone
And from its sheath the sword of justice leapt.
Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave,
But both came forth transfigured from the flame.
Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save,
And blest be she who in our weakness came –
Prophet and priestess! At one stroke she gave
A race to freedom and herself to fame.

 

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Once upon Iceland’s solitary strand
A poet wandered with his book and pen,
Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen,
Wherewith to close the volume in his hand.
The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand,
The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken,
And from the parting cloud-rack now and then
Flashed the red sunset over sea and land.
Then by the billows at his feet was tossed
A broken oar: and carved thereon he read:
Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee”;
And like a man, who findeth what was lost,
He wrote the words, then lifted up his head,
And flung his useless pen into the sea.

 

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“A soldier of the Union mustered out,”
Is the inscription on an unknown grave
At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave,
Nameless and dateless; sentinel or scout
Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout
Of battle, when the loud artillery drave
Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave
And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt.
Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea
In thy forgotten grave! with secret shame
I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn,
When I remember thou has given for me
All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name,
And I can give thee nothing in return.

 

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